To showcase the Bushwick conscience, I document the lives of its residents through random pictures, quotes, stories, and anecdotes from sidewalk strangers—whether it be the man donning a Tom Selleck mustache the girl with the toaster tattoo, or some homeless guy.
I aim to capture the drunk, horny, introspective, romantic, philosophical, all-too-topical, deeply-personal, and random penis-drawings of your neighbors. Is it a DIY celebration of on-the-spot creativity of Bushwickers? Maybe a little bit. Or maybe it’s a collection of drunken endeavors, mid-morning anxiety, and more drunken endeavors. That’s up to you.
“Here, I have a random-ass question for you. For the past year of my life, I’ve been documenting everything I do via random, pictures, quotes, and anecdotes from the strangers I meet. I’d love it if you’d write or draw whatever the Hell’s on your mind right now.”
“Yes, anything. It doesn’t matter. Stream of consciousness. Go!”
Pause. Person writes.
“Awesome. Can you read it to me dramatically?”
It’s interesting when you’re asked to write anything. It feels like the simplest request, but in an odd way I find it extremely challenging. You want to channel depth, say something profound and unique, and yet I find myself unable to move past surface analysis of the present circumstance.
Living in an area filled with artists, musicians, and…artists-turned-musicians—strummin’ paintbrush-style—maybe I naively assume the egg of imagination is always fertile here.
What I find are romantics…
It is important to know that no matter how hard we try, we will never fully understand the mystery that is the human heart.
… horny and not so romantic…
My Dixie Wrecked
…mostly horny—something’s fertile.
All I want for my birthday is a big booty hoe.
But, at some point, drunkenness consumes.
I am drunk. Not hammered. Or plastered. Or any other construction-related euphemism for alcohol consumption. No, I’m in that indistinguishable middle ground, somewhere between tipsy and wasted. I am in the marshlands of sobriety.
No matter where you go…there are you are
I don’t like sitting. When you sit, everybody knows what you look like when shitting. That shit’s vulnerable, which is why I sit like this.
Finally, a secret!
I know you think I’m a civilized being, but I had 9 Butterfinger Minis and a banana for dinner tonight. I just thought you should know.
It may have taken Hunter S. Thompson liquor, cocaine, and a Jacuzzi to enter a creative conscious. I’m hoping it only takes you a notebook, pen, and thoughts. If you happen to be on the Thompson diet, even better.
Top Three Notebook Lessons of the Week!
1. Don’t ever pay a cab for a bitch.
2. Rabbi Rule #1: Don’t play grab ass with strangers…lawsuit.
3. Don’t smoke before doing trapeze.
Debate: Drunk, drugs, or dry?
Strangely, a satisfactory song brought the you and the I into a 2 foot area of dance, song, and chardonnay. We laughed at the bearded man in the corner who sizzled amongst the Polly—any women in the back corner. A union of bananas and alcohol woke me up from this strange dream in which a bird salivated. It was dyed red. Not the sort of red on a crayon box but a deep burgundy. The bird represented two out of three elements which dominate the song that we sang together. Now dreams are not always concrete, but this dream created vivid colors that were not only real, but truthful. The couch is zebra print.